


Suited For Each Other

by lil_1337



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_1337/pseuds/lil_1337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Donald met Timmy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suited For Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Strachey Mysteries Fanzine

Guys in suits never appealed to me. If you can get them into bed, and in my experience most of the time you can't, they tend to be prissy, neurotic and unwilling to get their hands dirty. I'm not into rough trade or anything like that, but enthusiasm counts for a lot in my book. If I'm at a bar I'm there for two reasons to get drunk, and to get laid. I'm pretty simple in my needs. A beer and a quickie in the bathroom stall is enough to satisfy me. Guys in suits, though, they drink martinis and expect to be wined, dined, and romanced before having sex. Don't ask them to put your dick in their mouth, not unless you are willing to wash it off first and even then they make faces. Not the good kind, either. Given the choice I would rather just jack off and save myself the trouble of lying and having to drive home.

On the other hand, I've always had a weakness for dark-haired men. Throw in some brown eyes—the ones that look like melted chocolate—and I'm gone. It's like Superman and Kryptonite, except he goes soft and I get hard. Glasses I can take or leave. Some men know how to work them and make them sexy as hell. On other guys they are just awkward, another obstacle to getting where I want to be. I prefer a man who is taller than I am and nicely built, but in the end neither one of those are a deal breaker. Nor is how in or out of the closet he is. I'm not looking for marriage and a white picket fence, so that really means nothing to me. Hell, I'm flexible about even sharing names.

All of this information is stored neatly in a file in my brain labeled 'who to fuck'. Like most people I refer back to it a lot, though not always consciously. The problem is I've never been very good at following rules. Not even the ones I set for myself. That's what got me kicked out of the Army, and it's why I picked a job where I am my own boss. You could make an argument that my clients are actually who I work for, but we both know that it is bullshit. Donald Strachey, Albany's finest gay detective, sets the rules, and if the client doesn't like it he can find someone else. Since I happen to also be Albany's only gay detective that doesn't happen very often. When it does, I figure it is a better situation for everyone involved.

This leads up to the fact that Friday night I was seated at a table in a place called The Three Olives. Not your usual run of the mill bar, more of a cross between a lounge and a club, with the best parts of both. It was filled but not packed, and the band was playing a smooth jazz that was laying a cool washcloth on the fevered forehead of my soul. The dance floor had quite a few couples on it, and I was surprised to see a mixture of straight and gay couples. That's what happens when you spend all your time in bars that cater to one specific orientation, you lose sight of what is happening in the bigger context of the world.

I wasn't there to dance, though. I was on the look-out for a possibly philandering boyfriend of one of my current clients. Miles, no relation to the esteemed Mr. Davis, unfortunately, had arranged to be out of town on business for the weekend, so it was the perfect chance for me to see what the mouse was up to while the cat was off eating rubber chicken at a convention in Akron.

I didn't have long to wait. Three sips into my first beer and there was Eric Johnson, a stunning blond—if you like that type and we have already established I do not—in tight jeans and a black leather jacket that probably cost more than my car did when it was new. Now my old clunker would be fair exchange for a cup of coffee and a couple of slices of good pizza. He made himself comfortable at a table and ordered a martini, flirting with the waiter even though the guy clearly was not interested. By the time the cocktail was delivered Johnson had scoped out every guy in the place including me. After taking a long drink, he picked up his glass and made his way to the bar. The man he seated himself next to was drop-dead-gorgeous: Model beautiful with dark hair and eyes. The suit he was wearing fit him like he had been sewn into it. I had to applaud Johnson’s taste even if it meant that he was a cheating asshat. 

Mr. Suit was also sipping a martini which put him on strike two of my list, but sadly my dick was not listening to reason. Not that it does very often, but I keep hoping. My brain is capable of occasionally overriding my hormones, I just hate having to do it. 

When I got my license and hung out my shingle, I made a pact with myself not to get involved in the private lives of my clients. I get paid to find out if their spouses are cheating or their employees are ripping them off. That is it. Observe and report is what I do. No way am I expected to step in and influence the course of events. But there was something about him that made me want to break all the rules. Not Johnson, he was just one of a million gay clichés who made a living by being decorative and charming. No, it was the guy he was chatting up. Even from across the room I could see the animated way he used his hands when he spoke. His smile, which made an appearance often, curled my toes and sent a warm flush of lust up my spine. In the course of a ten minute conversation I was not even part of, I'd gone from only wanting to collect my fee to feeling the need to protect a perfect stranger from getting involved with a man who would use him and throw him away like yesterday's trash when something better came along. I couldn't ignore the little voice railing at me that Mr. Suit deserved more than to be treated like that. 

Once I've made up my mind, there is no stopping me; for better or worse, I am committed. Sometimes I think I should be. Without even realizing it, I had made a decision to keep Mr. Suit from making a mistake he would regret for a long time to come. 

When Johnson got up to use the bathroom I made my move. Empty beer glass in hand, I made my way to the bar and ordered another. When it had been refilled, I turned and accidentally bumped the stool next to me, sloshing beer all over the arm of Mr. Suit's jacket. I grabbed some napkins from a stack a little further down the bar and started to dab at the wet material, giving him my best apologetic smile. “I'm really sorry. I’ll pay to have it cleaned.” The words were out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to process them. Not only had I managed to put my foot in the middle of a rendezvous which would have wrapped up the case and given me a free weekend, now I was going to be out the cost of dry cleaning on top of it. Some days I think my dick hates me.  


On others I know it does.

He chuckled, rich and warm, and flashed me one of those million watt smiles which turned out to be even more stunning up close. “No harm done. I was planning to have it cleaned this weekend anyway. Are you all right? You didn't hurt yourself did you?” 

There was a question hanging in the air and, not being a fool, I jumped at it. “Strachey. Donald Strachey.” I set the now half full glass of beer on the bar and rubbed my hand on the leg of my slacks before offering it. 

“Timothy Callahan. Pleasure to meet you.” 

I started to laugh, but the gleam of wicked amusement in his eyes made the sound catch in my throat. Once again I was talking without bothering to engage my brain. “Since you won't let me pay for cleaning the beer off your jacket, could I buy you dinner?” 

He considered for an hour—or maybe a minute. Time stopped and I held my breath as I waited for his answer. Nodding slightly he smiled again, this time with more shyness than mischief. “I'd like that.” He checked his watch and frowned slightly. “There is a lovely Italian restaurant just around the corner that should still be open if we hurry.” 

“Marstoni's?” It was one of my favorite places to eat when I had a little money I could blow on a meal that didn't come out of a Styrofoam box or the microwave.  


“Yes!” His face lit up and I could feel my body do the same. “They have the most exquisite chicken piccata and the tiramisu is decadent.” 

I'd eaten a frozen dinner in the office before making my way to the club, but listening to Mr. Suit—Timothy, I corrected myself—describing the food was stirring up my hunger for all kinds of things both on the menu and off. “Shall we?” I made a sweeping gesture like a prince in those stupid fairy tales you see ads for everywhere, and was rewarded with another rumbling chuckle. After a quick stop by my table to grab my coat we were out of the door and down the street before Mr. playboy had returned from the bathroom. 

Dinner was delicious and dessert was even better. Afterwards, we went back to his place and I was forced to rewrite several of my rules about men who wear suits. Not that I'm complaining mind you.


End file.
